


G is for Genlock

by chileancarmenere



Series: Alistair Alphabet [7]
Category: Dragon Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:25:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chileancarmenere/pseuds/chileancarmenere





	G is for Genlock

Alistair’s heart is racing, his grip on his sword slippery with sweat. He readjusts his shield again and takes deep, calming breaths. Around him, three other new Grey Wardens look similarly strung-out. Duncan is the only one who looks completely relaxed, casually tossing one long dagger up and down.

 Irrationally, Alistair wonders if Duncan can juggle with swords.

 They hear them long before they can see them: a snuffling, growling noise ripping through the Wilds. If it weren’t for Duncan’s cool, calm demeanor, Alistair thinks he might run there and then, though he has never run away from a fight in his life before. The sound of the darkspawn is terrifying - genuinely _other_. Facing mages is easier; at least he knows what to expect of them. The darkspawn are alien, dark, cold, unknown. They don’t listen to reason, they have no idea of self-preservation.

 His skin is clammy with dread.

 The first one comes running towards them. Alistair gasps, he can’t help it. The darkspawn is short, squat, wielding two swords with practiced skill. Its skin is mottled burgundy and black, and blood is streaked down its face, like some grotesque mimicry of war paint. The armor it wears is piecemeal; one arm has a bracer while the other does not, and the helmet has black crow feathers stuffed into it as decoration. Alistair recognizes the insignia on its breastplate: it took the armor off a dead Grey Warden, probably a dwarf because of its size. At the sight, rage wells up in Alistair. This thing is a monster - it has no right to live.

 He steps forwards, all fear forgotten, and skillfully dodges the first blow with a twist to the right. The genlock fights with more anger than sense, and leaves itself open to Alistair’s blows. As Alistair slashes and presses the genlock, it does not fall back to defend itself, but counterattacks clumsily. It brings both swords up in a hacking motion, which Alistair blocks with his shield. The movement leaves the genlock’s side open, and Alistair swings his sword in a low horizontal sweep, burying it deep in the genlock’s side; a killing blow.

 The genlock roars in pain, and Alistair yanks his sword free. There is a lull in the fighting, and the genlock sinks down on its knees in front of him. He raises his sword to lop off its head, and the genlock looks up and _spits_ at him, a thick, viscous lump of dark red spittle. Alistair almost retches in disgust, hastily beheading it.

 When he looks up again, it’s all over. The hunting party of genlocks was small, and Duncan made short work of most of them. Hesitantly, Alistair reaches up and wipes away the genlock spit on his breastplate. At the sight of the dark spit on his gloves, the realization that he shares the same taint as these creatures overwhelms him, and he sits down with a thunk, narrowly missing the genlock corpse. For a moment, he doesn’t want to be a Grey Warden. He doesn’t want to have this dark taint flowing through his veins. He wants to go home.

 Duncan walks up and puts an arm around the younger man’s shoulders. “It’s rough, isn’t it?” “They’re…” Alistair can’t find the words. They’re monstrous. They’re repulsive. The smell of them, the look, turns his stomach. They don’t seem like things that should be alive in this world. They don’t fit.

 Duncan sits down next to him. “You are a guardian. What you do is horrible, I know that. But you do it for other people. Try thinking of it this way: every darkspawn that you kill is a life that you save.”


End file.
